


look for sanctuary

by orphan_account



Series: backs to the wall 'verse [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The self defense classes are Mikasa's idea. Everything else is kind of -- both of them. </p><p>Part of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1029274/chapters/2050084">backs to the wall</a> 'verse. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1041516">the risk of absence.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	look for sanctuary

It’s Mikasa’s idea.

Things are still new. Or they feel new, like they’re rebuilding from the ground up in a lot of ways. Sasha catches her staring at her sometimes, and it’s the same stare, the same cool level headed look, but she can see more in it now.

So the self defense classes are Mikasa’s idea. She doesn’t so much suggest it as drop the pamphlet in her lap, and tell her Petra will teach her for free.

Sasha agrees wordlessly.

 

It’s a good experience. Petra’s a firm teacher and pushes her limits. For the first two weeks she aches all over every night. It’s not that she isn’t in shape, it’s that she’s whipping new muscles into shape and it hurts. A lot. But it means the nights Mikasa goes to the gym, she goes with her, that she gets to see her even more than before, that she can watch her train.

And she’s watched Mikasa train before; before they started going out she’d come to a couple fights to see what it was like. But it’s as if everything has a new dimension to it now, and watching Mikasa pound into a punching bag, or listen as Hanji points out where her form is wrong - it’s different. Fuller.

 

She’s in one of the back rooms, stretching. Petra’s gone home with Hanji, and it sounds like most everyone else has left too. The hum of machinery and the thud of fists and legs against punching bags has stopped.

“How’re you feeling?” Mikasa says. She's standing in the doorway, gym jacket in one hand, still wearing her sparring clothes.

“Better,” Sasha says, straightening out of a lunge. “Less ache-y.”

“Petra says you’re doing really well.”

Sasha grins. “I bet I could even take you now.” Mikasa raises an eyebrow. “Really,” Sasha says.

“You’ve gotten that good.” She can hear the thread of amusement in Mikasa’s voice, the slight tilt in the corner of her mouth.

“You afraid to find out?”

Mikasa huffs out a laugh, half amusement half disbelief, and drops her jacket. “Not even a little bit.”

It’s obvious she’s taking it easy on her. Her shoulders aren’t as tensed, her aim isn’t accurate, and when Sasha trips her into a fall she leans into it. Sasha knows the only reasons she ends up pinning Mikasa to the floor a few minutes later is because Mikasa lets her.

“See?” she says, leaning over her. “I’ve gotten good.” Her hands are braced on either side of Mikasa’s head, and strands of hair have come loose from her braid and brush Mikasa’s cheeks.

Mikasa runs her hands up her ribs and hums. “I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Sasha says, and Mikasa raises an eyebrow. “Who has pinned whom?”

She doesn’t really follow how she does it, but Mikasa’s thighs tense, she lifts one hip, twists, and she’s braced over Sasha, her hands pressed against her palms.

“I don’t know. Who?” she says.

Sasha leans up, and she doesn’t know what it is, maybe the adrenaline pumping through her, the way Mikasa’s face has softened from the look of triumph to something else, something sweeter. She presses her fingertips to Mikasa’s cheek, brushes her mouth over hers. Sometimes she forgets how catching it is, how much they want one another, how easy it is to trip from sweetness into hot, untempered desire. How it always sweeps through the two of them like a flood.

Mikasa’s fingers trail back down her wrists, over her shoulders, her fingers tangle in her hair, and her mouth is hot, open against Sasha’s. She pushes but Sasha pushes back, pushes back until Mikasa is under her, pressed into the sparring mat.

“It’s the gym,” she gasps and Mikasa says, “there’s no one here.”

She doesn’t think after that, tugs on the waist band of Mikasa’s shorts, pauses, breath caught in her throat when Mikasa leans up to suck a mark on her throat. It’s fast and rough and awkward. Fucking on a sparring mat is not ideal, and she can feel the material burn into her knees but she doesn’t care, loves it, loves Mikasa and the sounds that she makes and the way she drags her fingers down her back and over her hips.

And that slams into her mid-kiss as if she didn’t already know, how much she loves Mikasa, how deep that goes, how long it will last. And sometimes she wonders how that would have gone, if she’d told her the night she came back, if she’d said  _you don’t leave the people you love._  And that’s the newness, the difference that makes everything else seem sharper and more. She groans into the kiss, presses her hand over Mikasa’s between her thighs, waits for the heat to scorch its way all the way through her.

It’s not enough, she realizes, pressing kisses over Mikasa’s shoulders, tugging at the shoulder straps on her sports bra. She doesn’t want to stop.

“We have a bed at home,” Mikasa says quietly. Sasha’s head snaps up. Mikasa’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy and she can tell that it’s both of them, neither wants to stop but if they get caught --

“Okay,” Sasha breathes. “Okay - lets--”

They jerk shorts and underwear up, grab jackets and gym bags and practically run to the parking lot. Mikasa moves faster, clasps Sasha’s hand in hers, grip tight to almost bruising. They get to the car and Sasha’s never been patient when she doesn’t have to be. She tugs Mikasa around and presses her against the driver door, pulls her face down to hers, presses every line of her body against hers. Mikasa reaches underneath her jacket, cold fingertips running along her skin.

“I could,” Mikasa starts, stops, breathes, leans down so her mouth is brushing Sasha’s ear. “I could fuck you in the car but I really want to do this in bed. Our bed.”

Sasha’s grip tightens in the folds of Mikasa’s jacket, and she closes her eyes, dizzy with want.

“Your choice,” Mikasa says, tracing circles on her hip.

She kisses her, messy and fierce and says against her mouth, “bed. God bed the bed. Let’s go.”

Mikasa tears out of the parking lot tens of miles above the speed limit and they get home in half the time. And that, god that makes her dizzier. Not the speed but that the apartment is her home now, that she basically lives there, that most of her closet has migrated to Mikasa’s closet, that her textbooks are on Mikasa’s shelf, that they grocery shop together, and have a Sunday morning routine. It’s overwhelming.

They practically run up the stairs to the walk up, and Sasha can’t keep her arms from around Mikasa, from pressing her mouth against her shoulders and neck as she struggles with the lock.The door finally opens and Mikasa tugs her in. They strip out of their clothes walking. Coat, shoes, socks, pants. Mikasa finishes first and helps her tug off the last of her clothes, kisses her as they stumble toward the bed a tangle of limbs and clothes caught around their ankles and wrists.

Sasha can feel the words building up in her throat, the -- she doesn’t what it is, the way her hands keep roaming and how it feels as if she’s forgetting to breathe. They’ve been together eight months -- and she tries not to think about that number sometimes -- and it still scares her, how much she wants Mikasa, how much she loves Mikasa. It’s a fear she’s faced, conquered, assimilated. Still, it knocks the breath out of her lungs, makes her dizzy when Mikasa pulls away, pushes her back into the mattress, catches her eyes.

And she knows, even if Mikasa won’t say it, even if Mikasa ran because of it, that she feels the same way. That the brief moment of stillness, of leaning over and brushing her lips against her forehead and her cheeks and her collarbone -- she knows what it is. She murmurs Mikasa’s name, leans up. The kiss is soft and slow, punctuated by both Mikasa’s hands on her face, by her thumbs brushing arcs over her cheeks.

“Mikasa,” she starts.

“Lean back,” Mikasa says.

The fire catches just as quickly, blazing a path down her stomach over her thighs. She tries to control what comes out of her mouth when Mikasa pushes her legs apart, when her fingers turn teasing and then insistent, when her mouth -- _her mouth_. Any number of things come out; her name, yes yes please, moans, sounds she feels deep in her chest, feels in the press of her heels against Mikasa’s spine, in the way her fingers twist in her hair and tug. Mikasa groans against her and she feels that reverberating all the way through her, feels it tip her over, in the arc of her spine and the tightening of her fingers in Mikasa’s hair, and the litany of  _yes yes please I love you yes_. 

Sasha struggles to sit up, bumps noses with Mikasa, kisses her open mouthed and greedy. She can taste herself in the corners of her mouth, on her tongue, sharp and _present_. She expects herself to be tired, but she wants, just as she always does, hands on Mikasa’s hips and thighs, mouth on her cheeks, her shoulder, her breast. Mikasa is limber, her body giving and suggestible, and she lets Sasha guide her onto the bed, parts her legs and lifts her hips to Sasha’s touch with a stuttering sigh.

It’s everything at once -- Mikasa’s eyes closing, the parting of her lips, the way she tastes and sounds. Her hands always find their way to her hair, always tug gently and then roughly, sits up as if she can exert control over this moment by seeing. The letters of her name fall out of her mouth, tangled up in sighs, broken up by the jerk of her hips. There’s the clench of muscle around her tongue, and the lift of her body, and the unspooling as she sinks back into the mattress with a sigh.

“Sasha.” She presses kisses to her thighs, over her hips and stomach, up to her mouth. They’re slow, brief kisses, kisses meant to settle them. And they do -- they lay out on the bed, let the adrenaline, the constant _wantwantwant_  winds its way down through them. They don’t burn out -- they calm, settle against each other, tangle legs and fingers together. They fall asleep that way, Sasha’s head tucked underneath Mikasa’s chin.

 

Sasha wakes up on her stomach, Mikasa draped over her back, her cheek pressed against her shoulder. There’s sunlight streaming in through the window, and the sound of car traffic filtering up through the air. She shifts and groans. There’s an ache in her bones, from sparring and from everything else. She stares at the window, then turns over, curls up around Mikasa, and drifts off to sleep.

 

The next time she wakes up, the bed is empty, though not yet cold. She makes herself get out of bed, digs around for an oversized sweater against the winter chill, and follows the smell of coffee to the kitchen.

Mikasa is leaning against the counter, a mug cradles in her hands, in nothing but a long sleeved tee and underwear. Sasha grins her good morning, and settles herself against her side, one arm around her back.

“I didn’t cook,” Mikasa says, and let’s Sasha take a sip out of her mug.

“S’okay,” Sasha mumbles, mouth still against the rim of the mug. “I can make something in a little bit.” Mikasa kisses her forehead. Sasha leans her head against her shoulder, and thinks about not going to class today, about camping out on the couch with Mikasa and watching tv and maybe trying to study, but probably just fooling around for the rest of the day.

“Sasha?”

“Mmm?”

Mikasa jostles her shoulder so that she looks up. She leans her head against Sasha’s, links their fingers around he coffee mug together.

“You said -- last night. You probably don’t remember -- but--”

“I remember,” Sasha interrupts softly.

“Oh,” Mikasa says. “Did you--?”

“Mean it? Yes. I love you.Of course I--”

Mikasa sets the coffee mug on the counter and kisses her. Her eyes are shining when they pull apart, her fingers knuckle white tight around Sasha’s hands.

“--do,” she finishes breathlessly.

 

Later they curl up on the couch -- there’s some kind of Thanksgiving film on, and they’ve got textbooks and notebooks sprawled around on the coffee table and the floor. Mikasa’s given up on studying for chemistry, and is dozing on and off, her head on Sasha’s knee.

“You know that--” Mikasa starts, and she can hear her swallow. Her voice drops. “That I love you, too. Right?”

Sasha combs a hand through Mikasa’s hair, and presses a kiss to her cheek. She  _had_  known, but Mikasa'd so often built a wall around herself, that sometimes she wondered if _Mikasa_  knew. If she’d bought so completely into the necessity of her own defense that she’d hidden parts of herself. But she’d stayed, and she’d let Sasha stay and that, more than anything, spoke volumes.

“Sasha?”

She leans over her so that her hair falls around both their faces, blocking out the television, and smiles. She doesn’t say anything but Mikasa smiles back, and angles her face up for a kiss. And it tastes like Mikasa and coffee and home and staying.

 


End file.
